I lived a regular life.  Playing basketball, hanging out with my friends; you know the stuff regular kids do.  I was a regular kid until a little while ago.

     On my 10th birthday I received a special gift from my parents.  They had managed to find two Super Bowl tickets.  Although this year's Super Bowl had already passed, my parents had gone out of their way to get me tickets for next year's game.  Since there was no indication who would be playing next year, the ticket was mostly blank.

     I didn't care who was playing.  I only cared that I was going.  I unwrapped my other gifts, sent by the rest of my family.  They were good and all, but nobody's gift could match the one my parents had given me.

     That year was just like any other.  I played basketball in the Fall, snowboarded in the Winter, and played tennis in the Spring.  I led an active life.

     Every summer I tried out for the school baseball team.  I had only made it once and was determined to make it this year.  I showed up at the tryouts, pumped and ready to go.  I walked quickly to the front desk and signed up.  The slightly plump woman behind the desk handed me a number, and told me to go to the baseball diamond in the back.  I briefly thanked her and sprinted towards the back door.

     As I broke out into the sunny day, I breathed in a fresh breath of air.  It stung a little, but I just shrugged it off.  I spotted the tryout center and ran towards it.

     "Hi.  My name is Derek.  What is yours?" asked a kind-looking man with a scruffy beard.

     "Hi," I answered.  "My name is Brandon.  Is this where I try out?" I asked eagerly.

     "It sure is," he replied with a grin.  "Just go over to that red flag and Mr. Newman will take care of you."

     "Thanks, Derek," I yelled as I ran off.  I reached the center quickly and turned towards Mr. Newman.

     "Hi.  You must be Brandon," Mr. Newman said as he glanced at his list of names.  "Are you ready to start?"

     "I sure am," I yelled.

     "Well then," replied Mr. Newman with a small laugh.  "We'll start then.  First we will test your fielding skills, okay?"

     "That's cool," I answered. 

     I ran swiftly towards the area around shortstop and second base.  Mr. Newman picked a ball and bat up and yelled to see if I was ready.  I nodded yes, and he began to hit grounders to me.  I shuffled my feet towards every one of them and used what my dad called the "alligator hands."

     After about 20 or 25 of those, Mr. Newman motioned for me to come on in.

     "Well, you sure are a good infielder; let's see what you can do at the plate."

     At that, I ran to pick up a bat and helmet.  I fitted the helmet snuggly onto my head, and set up in the batter's box.

     Most of the pitches that Mr. Newman threw were slow and fairly easy to hit.  Although some went a little wild and bounced either at my feet, or went sailing over my head.  He apologized briefly and threw more pitches.

     When Mr. Newman threw a pitch way too low, it hit the ground and bounced up and hit my ankle.  I slightly grimaced in pain, but just shook it off.

     All the rest of the batting section went well.  I was 18 out of 20, and felt pretty confident.  Mr. Newman told me I had performed very well, and he would get back to me in about a week or so.

     I left that ball field feeling pretty confident of myself.  I walked rapidly to the parking lot.  I found my bike and slung my 89-pound body onto the seat.  I pushed off and went sailing down the street.  As I rode along, enjoying the beautiful day, I felt a peculiar pain in my ankle.  I continued riding even though the pain persisted.

     As I whelled into my driveway, the pain had grown into a full burn.  I laid my bike carefully in the grass and jogged inside.

     The house smelled like fried potatoes and steak, as I entered it.  "Yum," I thought, "Mom is cooking dinner."  I threw my book bag onto the huge armchair, and dropped heavily into the fluffy leather couch.  I stared up at the ceiling and suddenly remembered the pain in my ankle.  I rolled up my sock to reveal a large black and purple bruise.

     My gosh, that ball must have hit me harder than I thought.  "Hey, Mom!" I yelled.  "Come look at this."

     My mom hurried into the living room and crouched over me.  "Honey, what happened?" she asked sounding concerned.

     "I dunno," I replied.

     "Has anyone or anything hit you?"

     "No," I replied.

     "Do you have any other bruises?" asked my mom, concern deep in her eyes and voice.

     "Well, I do have a few on my stomach," I said as I lifted my shirt to reveal three purple bruises.  "And I also have some on my arms," I said.

     My mom saw these bruises and pushed me out of the house and into the car.  She sped out of the driveway and headed towards what appeared to be the hospital.

     "Mom, where are we going?" I asked curiously.

     "The hospital," she said, almost crying.

     "Mom, what's wrong?" I asked, concerned.

     "Nothing," said Mom with tears glistening in her eyes.

     Right then, I knew something was terribly wrong.  My mother doesn't cry over anything.  We pulled into the large hospital parking lot, and parked the car.  My mom took my hand and we walked quickly inside.

     My mother pushed me up to the front desk.  There was something wrong with me.  I have one of those terrible diseases that they show on TV and magazine ads.  The churning in my stomach grew full force and I felt like I was going to throw up.

     Right as I thought I would snap, the doctor rushed into the waiting room.  He had a flushed expression on his face.

     "So sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Mitchell.  I had to deliver twins in a C section."

     "Oh, that's quite all right," said my mother sadly.

     "Well then, why doesn't Brandon come back with me and we'll have a look at him, okay?" Dr. Hutchinson said with a smile.

     I nodded slightly and slowly followed him to his office.

     When Dr. Hutchinson pushed open the door to his office, the smell of medicine and cotton overtook me.  I almost barfed right there.  I took Dr. Hutchinson's advice and sat down on the padded hospital bench.

     "Okay then, Brandon," said the doctor slowly.  "Let's see how you are doing."

     He crouched down on his knees and took a look at the bruise on my ankle.  "Now Brandon, do you have any idea how you got this bruise, or any of the other ones on your body?"

     I shook my head "no" and stared at the floor.

     Dr. Hutchinson's expression turned slightly concerned.  "Well Brandon, we're going to run a few tests.  Youn know, just to make sure you are okay."

     I nodded my head slowly.  With that, the doctor grabbed a small shot and pricked my skin with the needle.  He gradually pulled out a small sample of my blood.  He motioned for the nurse to take it to the lab down the hall.

     "We'll just have to wait for the results to come in and we'll be all set.  But that takes some time.  So you and your mom can go home."  He pushed me out of his office with his large gruff hands.

     When I reached the waiting room, my mom sprang up from her seat, her face full of worry and concern.

     "Is everything o.k. doctor?" asked my mother anxiously.

     "Well," said Dr. Hutchinson as he stroked his beard thoughtfully.  "We performed some tests, and the results will be in, in about a week."

     "Will you call us, or should we come here?"

     "Oh, we'll just call you," he said, displaying a very fake smile.

     My mom thanked the doctor and walked me out to the car.  We climbed in together and Mom started the car up.  The car hummed silently as we drove along.  The silence was deafening.  No one would dare say a word.  We reached our house shortly and mom maneuvered the car into the garage.

     I ran inside and immediately climbed the stairs up to my room.  I slammed the door and flopped down onto my bed.  "Something was wrong with me," I thought as I started to absentmindedly pick up my baseball cap and started to thow it into the air.  "Something is wrong with me," I repeated over and over in my mind.  I reviewed this thought and let the ball drop to the floor.  I rolled over, face down on my bed and started to silently cry.

     For about a month, the hospital never called us.  My life went on as it always had, and I pretty much forgot about the hospital visit.  I lived my life freely now.  I had made the baseball team and was going to my first couple practices.  I had made quite a bit of new friends at the baseball camp I had attended.  I also was doing better than ever in school, pulling A's in every subject.  The only thing that still reminded me of the last visit was the bruises.

     Now they had grown much worse.  I had 3 alone on my stomach.  I dare not show my mom, afraid to remind her of the visit.  I just kept the thing completely to myself.  Things were pretty good until about 1 month and 2 weeks after I had last visited the hospital.

     That day had been filled with activity and fun.  I had baseball practice, played football with my new friends, and went swimming with my closest friend KC.  KC and I had just met but it felt like we had known each other forever.  We had met at my baseball camp and had instantly become friends.  We shared a lot in common and we weren't afraid to tell what we were thinking.  Most of my summer days were spent at his house or doing something with him.

    After I left KC's, I ran the whole way home.  I was so happy.  That night KC and a bunch of my other friends would be going to the state fair.  He had invited me to go, and I was sure I could go.  All I had to do is ask my mom.  I burst into the house at lightening speed and raced for the kitchen.

     I flung open the door and started to scream at my mother excitedly.

     "Tonight KC and some of my other friends are..." I slowly trailed off.

     My mother was sitting in the kitchen with her head down sobbing away.  I ran up to her and yelled, "Mom, what's wrong?"

     She just shook her head and after awhile, muttered those horrible words.

     "I'm so sorry, Brandon, but you have leukemia."  With that she started in a whole new set of sobs.

     I stood there frozen, paralyzed.  Leukemia.  The worst word in the world.  I have leukemia.  Right then I knew my life would never be the same.

     About 5 months after my diagnosis, I started to receive the leukemia signs.  Getting sick a lot, developing big bruises in every spot of my body, an dhaving some hair loss.  As word got around that I had the disease, people didn't go near me.  I felt like I was trapped inside my own little world.   The thing that hurt the most was that I lost half my friends.  But luckily KC stood right by my side.

     It seemed I couldn't go for 2 weeks without seeing the doctor.  Every time I went, I couldn't stand to see the hurt in my mother's eyes.  It made it horrible.  But as time progressed, slowly my life also did.

     As my leukemia grew worse and worse, I felt like I should do something with my life.  I went to a lot of schools, talking about leukemia and other related diseases.  I also talked at conventions and other such events.  People thought I was so inspirational that I went on to be the national spokesperson for leukemia.

     My disease was no longer a curse; it was more of a blessing.  Friends and neighbors didn't dart away when I walked near them.  They happily greeted me and talked nicely to me.  I received thousands of letters from kids' nationwide.  I felt so good that I was helping other children realize that leukemia didn't stop you from doing things.  You should just go on in life.

     My health decreased more and more as my speeches grew more and more inspirational.  I felt so bad but at the same time wonderful.  My sickness was beginning to overtake me.  I got sick every other week and hardly could stand up, I was so weak.  I was admitted to the hospital about 65 times in 7 months.

     I couldn't go to school, so I had school brought to me.  And when I couldn't go to the big baseball championship, the same team that I was going to be on, Mr. Newman videotaped it for me.  I was being overwhelmed with all the support from the many caring people.

     On January 27th, one day before the Super Bowl game, KC came to visit me.

     "Hey man," he said.

     "Hey," I said excitedly.  I was always excited when KC came.  But somehow this visit was different.  KC was actually crying as he spoke to me.

     "Hey, the doctors say you aren't doing so well.  I thought that since you might not have that much time left, I should do something for you."

     And with that, all of my friends and neighbors walked in, carrying loads of presents, balloons, card, everything.  Right then and there I started to cry.  Not tears of sorrow, but happiness.

     All of my favorite people were here with me, and they did everything they could do to make me feel better.  They fed me my favorite fod, played my favorite games, and even watched my favorite movies with me.  I would have to say it was one of the better days in my life.

     After everything had wound down, KC came over and gave me a small hug.

     "Hey mah, I don't mean this personally or anything, but I love you."  He walked slowly towards me and gave me a big hug.

     "I love you too, KC," I said through my tears.

     Then KC had to leave.  He walked out of the hospital room and whispered softly, "Bye, Brandon."

     That is the last entry in Brandon's journal.  I am sorry to say that he passed on that night.  The leukemia overtook his small body, and it just gave out.  The doctors said he went peacefully though.

     The one who took it hardest was KC.  Even though he had been the last one to see Brandon, he cried the whole day of January 28th, the day Brandon was found dead in the hospital.

     The saddest thing of all is that Brandon died on Super Bowl Sunday.  It was supposed to be one of the highlights of his life, but he never got to see it.

     The last few months of his life were maybe the best ones of his life.  When Brandon died, we received so many letters of suport and sorrow.  Brandon was known nationwide and was loved by many people.

     My family received a letter from an inspirational 3rd grader in Montana.  He sent us a letter about Brandon's death:
 
 

     My family has looked towards Brandon's death as not a curse, but a blessing.  At least we know that he is not in pain any more.  And Marcus Johson said it best I think:

     "I can't wait to go to heaven, because I will be able to see my hero, Brandon Foster."